The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  “I will make the contract terms generous, if that is what concerns you,” he said finally.

  “That is not at all what concerns me.” Ariane drew a steadying breath, summoning every ounce of courage she could muster, knowing she was taking the biggest gamble of her life. “I thank you my lord, but I must decline.”

  He still could not believe she meant to refuse. He had expected her to leap at the offer. She hadwon the battle between them, by the Cross; he was willing to give Ariane exactly what she had been demanding for weeks.

  Ranulf felt irrationally betrayed by her sudden, inexplicable reversal. Yet unable, unwilling, to recognize the feeling as pain, he took refuge in anger. He had opened his mouth to deliver a scathing reply when he noticed the crowd that had gathered around them, awaiting his orders.

  “We shall discuss this in private,” he muttered so that only Ariane could hear.

  “There is no need to discuss it further, my lord.”

  His temper kindled. Taking her arm, Ranulf drew her toward the stairwell. “The solar—now.”

  They ascended the steps without speaking, the only sound their footsteps and the clinking of his spurs.

  “Now, what is the meaning of this nonsense?” he demanded in irritation when he had shut the door behind them in the solar. “For weeks now you have harped at me to make you my lady.”

  “I have not harped at you,” Ariane replied quietly. “Nor is my position nonsense. I no longer expect to wed you.”

  “Whyever not?” Ranulf exclaimed, torn between incomprehension and frustration, hurt and anger.

  Her own gaze held anguish. “Because you will believe I tricked you to save my own skin and my inheritance. That I forced you into a union that is repugnant to you. I will not compel you to accept a marriage that is so distasteful to you, my lord.”

  He stared at her a long moment. “It would not be distasteful to me,” he admitted finally, grudgingly.

  “It would. I will not force you to marry against your wishes.”

  Curtly Ranulf shook his head. “Were you attempting coercion, wild horses could not compel me to wed you. But that is hardly the case. I am reconciled to the marriage. I will be acting at my king’s behest—”

  “King Henry’s wishes are not a good enough reason for me,” Ariane repeated stubbornly.

  Muttering an oath, Ranulf shook his head again in disbelief. “I agree to honor you as my lady wife, and you refuse? No, I cannot accept it, wench. You will wed me tonight as planned, so that I may leave tomorrow with a clear conscience.”

  Her chin lifted. “There, you see, Ranulf? You call me ‘wench’ in that scornful tone, as if I were dirt beneath your feet.”

  Ranulf looked taken aback. “I mean naught by it. I call all females ‘wench.’ ”

  “I know.” The ache in her throat made her voice quaver. “But I wish to mean more to you than other women. I want more, far more, my lord. I want to be accepted as your partner in life, the mother of your children, your true love—not your chattel, your leman, your slave.”

  He stared at her, appraising her expression, noting her deadly seriousness. “You ask much, demoiselle.”

  “Not so much, my lord.”

  His lips compressed. “Would you see me on bended knee? Is that what you want from me?”

  Ariane shook her head sadly.

  “Thenwhat, by the Saints?”

  “I want a husband who can trust me, for one.”

  “Trust?” Ranulf’s brow furrowed. “What has that to say to the matter?”

  “Everything, my lord. You believe noblewomen cannot remain faithful to their vows; you think we have no honor, no scruples. But I consider a vow sacred. I intend to remain faithful to my lord husband until the day I die.”

  Warily he searched Ariane’s beautiful face, realizing the truth of her commitment. He knew the value she placed on vows; he had seen proof of it in her devotion to her parents, her people. Indeed, that conviction was why he had at last risked surrender, why he was insisting now that she wed him. Her oath to honor and obey him she would hold sacred—but now she was refusing even to consider a marriage between them because of some nonsensical notion about trust.

  Taking a steadying breath to control the tension rising within him, Ranulf decided it wiser to emphasize the advantages of the union. “Must I spell out what your dower rights would be, demoiselle?”

  “No, I care not what they would be.”

  “You care not?” His mouth curled skeptically. “What if I should die? I will be riding into an armed camp, to a castle under siege. I could be killed by a spent arrow, or assaulted by robbers on the road, for that matter. As my widow you would have certain rights to my estate.”

  She flinched at the thought of Ranulf dying, but refused to look away. “You mistake my character,” Ariane said softly, “if you believe considerations of wealth and power are why I wish to be your wife.”

  “Well, then . . . as my wife you would have more influence over the disposition of your precious Claredon,” he pointed out.

  “Perhaps . . . but Claredon will survive without me. You will rule it justly, I have no doubt.”

  His eyes narrowed. “If I manage to free your father, then will you reconsider?”

  “My decision has naught to do with my father. I am profoundly grateful for all you have done—and will do—for my family, Ranulf. More grateful than I can ever say. But your generosity toward my parents will not sway me in this matter.”

  An unfamiliar feeling of panic rose in Ranulf, but he managed to ward it off by summoning fresh anger. “Perhaps you have forgotten an important detail, my lady,” he said tightly. “We may already be wed. Your trick with the bedsheets may have cemented our union, whether you will it or not. Rome may very well have refused to dissolve the contract.”

  “There is as much likelihood the annulment has been granted,” Ariane countered softly.

  “If the Pope has not acted yet, I shall withdraw my petition. I no longer mean to seek an annulment.”

  She would not reply.

  His jaw clenching, Ranulf grasped at another argument. “Have you considered the consequences to yourself if you refuse? If your father is found guilty, you will be stripped of rank and possessions, forced to beg for your very bread. You will become a ward of the crown—and likely be forced to wed a man of Henry’s choosing.”

  “That is preferable to the alternative. King Henry will give me to a man I cannot love or perhaps even respect . . . but I would rather that than have you come to despise me.”

  At her quiet declaration, Ranulf felt suddenly faint, stunned, as if he had taken a sword thrust to the gut but could not yet feel the pain.

  The blow she had dealt him showed on his features. Dismayed by his reaction, Ariane moved toward him, reaching out an imploring hand. She had to make Ranulf understand that she was not rejectinghim. She was leaving him free to choose, giving him the chance to decide what he truly wanted.

  Her features softened in entreaty as she gazed up at him. “You still do not understand, do you, Ranulf? Iwant to be your wife. But if you cannot admit your deepest feelings to yourself, if you do not know—trulyknow —deep in your heart that I can make you happy, that I can complete your life as you could mine, that our two hearts would be as one, then I must refuse your offer of marriage.”

  He looked away, saying stiffly, “You want me to ply you with sweet words, but I am a soldier, not a poet.”

  “No,” she replied earnestly. “I care not what words you use, although if you truly loved me, you would not hesitate to shout it from the castle walls. What matters only is what youfeel for me. If you cannot trust me, if you think I have trapped you into wedding me, you would come to hate me. Ranulf . . . I could not bear it if that happened.”

  “I could never hate you,” he said rigidly, his voice low.

  “But you do not love me.”

  There was a long, pregnant silence.

  Ariane gazed at him sadly. “Now, at least, y
ou desire my body. But when you grow tired of me, what then? Will you set me aside? Will you turn to another woman for comfort? Will you seek pleasure from your Saracen leman and forget me? I could not bear to lose you that way. My heart could not bear it. ’Tis better that I not wed you at all.”

  Ranulf stared at her, aching to deny her accusation. She was mistaken on one score. He wanted more than Ariane’s body; he wantedher, all of her. He wanted to bind her to him unalterably in marriage. And he wanted to believe her. He wanted desperately to trust her, to know that she would not betray him. He wanted to bare his heart, to release the fear inside him. Hewanted to love her. But he could not force the words past the tightness in his throat.

  The ache roughened his voice. “You have secured the offer of my hand. Must you have my soul as well?”

  “Nay, Ranulf,” Ariane said softly. “Not your soul. Your heart. I want your love. Nothing else will do. If and when you can say freely that you love me, then I will proclaim my vows before God with all the love in my own heart.”

  How could he admit to a love when he had no heart? Ranulf wanted to cry. How could he give what he did not possess?

  When he remained silent, Ariane smiled sadly. “You are a good man, Ranulf, worthy of my love and devotion. But you cannot believe me worthy of yours. You cannot trust me. And until you can, till you can say truly that you love me, I cannot be your wife.”

  She read his answer in the bleakness of his eyes.

  “I thought not,” she murmured, her heart aching.

  She reached up to touch her fingertips to his cheek. Ranulf flinched as if burned.

  “You ask too much of me,” he said almost bitterly.

  “Perhaps. I hope not.”

  Gritting his teeth, Ranulf turned away and went to the door. “This issue is not settled between us,” he flung over his shoulder, before he let himself from the room, shutting the door hard in his wake.

  “I devoutly pray not,” Ariane whispered to herself, wondering if she had made a terrible mistake. She would take Ranulf on any terms, if only she could believe that by marrying him she was not sentencing him to a life of misery. That one day he might come to open his heart to her without reservation, without bitter wariness or treacherous doubts. Love could not survive without trust.

  Am I a fool for wanting your trust, my love?

  She sighed, knowing she could not allow herself to give up hope. Someday, God willing, she would penetrate the armor around the dragon’s heart and claim her most cherished dream.

  Dazed, feeling as if he had taken a lance blow directly to the chest, Ranulf descended to the hall and called for wine as he took his rightful place at the high table.

  “Is something amiss?” Payn asked, taking one look at his liege’s troubled features.

  “She refused my offer of marriage,” he said numbly.

  Payn looked startled. “She refused?”

  “Aye, she will not wed me, can you credit it? She says I do not trust her enough.”

  His vassal watched him in silence, saying finally, “Doyou trust her, my lord?”

  “Enough to marry her. What more can she ask of me?”

  Payn was a long time in answering. “I suppose I can comprehend her position.”

  “Canyou?” Ranulf shook his head bitterly, trying to deny the emotion warring within his soul. He should be pleased Ariane had refused him. For weeks now—years—he had tried to elude a marriage to her. Why then did he feel this pain in his gut, in his chest? Why did he feel this gnawing fear? Itwas fear, not of committing himself to Ariane, but of losing her.

  “Then perhaps you can explain her answer to me,” he retorted grimly. “Never will I understand the workings of a woman’s mind.”

  “I fear that is the dilemma, my lord. The Lady Ariane is not like others of her kind—and you will not see it.”

  “She said much the same,” Ranulf replied, his tone suddenly bleak.

  Payn’s expression turned grave. “Can you not give her the trust she asks for, Ranulf?”

  He stared down at the table. “What matters it if I do or not?”

  “I think it matters a great deal . . . to her. Several times recently you have suspected the Lady Ariane of wrongdoing—yet each time you doubted her, she has proven your suspicions false. But you will not absolve her of treachery and deceit. She has ample cause to be wary of placing her fate in your hands.”

  It was true, Ranulf admitted; he had wronged her unforgivably. And yet when he had tried to make amends, she had thrown his gesture back in face. He had laid himself open to her, had bared himself to this pain, for naught.

  “Do you love her?”

  Ranulf gave a start at the question. He could not answer that with any certainty. He could not put a name to the madness he felt for Ariane, the nameless emotion that flooded his heart whenever she was near, whenever he simply thought of her. “Truthfully . . . I do not know.”

  Payn nodded in sympathy. “Then I advise you to consider carefully what you feel for her, my lord. Search your heart, your conscience. If you feel anything for her besides passion, then tell her. A woman likes to hear these things—”

  Priest John came hurrying up to the dais just then, his aging features showing concern. “You summoned me, milord?”

  Ranulf’s reply was almost a growl. “I was in error. Go back to your flock,” he ordered bitterly. “It seems I have no need of your services after all.”

  No wedding ceremony was held that night.

  Unforgiving, steeped in his own dark reflections, Ranulf scarcely said two words to Ariane throughout the evening meal, and then he remained in the hall with his men until well past midnight, delaying the moment when he would have to confront her again.

  When at last he came to her, disturbing her warm body from slumber, he made no mention of the turmoil that was in his heart. But he made love to her with a fierce urgency that bordered on desperation. For no matter what else stood between them, his desire for her had not diminished. His passion was unquenchable.

  She accompanied him to the bailey the next morning as Ranulf prepared to leave for Henry’s camp. His war stallion pawed the ground impatiently while he gave final instructions to his vassals who would remain behind, including Payn.

  He saved his farewell to Ariane for last. When finally Ranulf turned to her, he could not utter the fateful words she yearned to hear.

  “I will do my utmost for your father,” he said stiffly as he tugged on his leather gauntlets.

  She searched Ranulf’s harsh, impassive face, aching to be in his arms, wishing she could put things right between them. His remoteness made her sick with longing. “I thank you, my lord.”

  He did not touch her, did not hold her or embrace her or kiss her as Ariane yearned for him to do. She stood there unmoving, her heart hurting, as he mounted his destrier without speaking.

  But even as he gathered the reins, Ranulf made another concession to her. In a voice strong enough for all to hear, he addressed her clearly. “My lady, I charge you to keep this castle safe for me. Hold it well until my return.”

  Ariane felt a sob catch in her throat. Ranulf had let it be known he was leaving his castle in her hands. He trusted her that much, at least. She could only hope he would someday come to trust her with his heart.

  With a tremulous smile, she nodded solemnly, accepting the charge. “As you will, my lord.”

  She thought he would leave without another word, but she was blessedly mistaken. Without warning, Ranulf muttered a curse and bent down to catch her about the waist. Lifting her up, he covered her mouth fiercely with his, startling her with his violence, his need. Yet Ariane clung to him with all her might, returning his passion, tasting regret, sorrow, despair in his kiss.

  Just as abruptly as he had begun, Ranulf released her and set her on her feet. His amber eyes were enigmatic as, without another word, he turned his destrier and cantered to the head of the column of mounted knights and men-at-arms.

  Through a blur of t
ears, Ariane watched as he rode away without a backward glance, his dragon’s banner snapping tauntingly in the spring breeze.

  27

  It was a disturbing ride for Ranulf. His thoughts hounded him the entire journey north, while his vassal’s counsel echoed in his mind with a relentless, pounding urgency:Search your heart, search your heart, search your heart. . . .

  What did he feel for Ariane? What, beyond passion, lay hidden in the depths of his heart?

  Her generous nature, her spirited defense of her people, her devotion to her loved ones, her passionate caring, all pointed to someone who was trustworthy. Women were not often noted for their faithfulness and high principles, but within Ariane’s shapely breast lay a heart of honor, with the courage and honesty of a valiant knight. She was a warrior’s woman, worthy of any ruler. Far more worthy than he, Ranulf concluded bleakly.

  He had been so blinded by prejudices, his view so twisted by bitter experience, he had refused to see, had stubbornly refused to admit even to himself, that he was losing his heart to her. He could not arm his heart as he could don a coat of mail, he had discovered painfully. And now it was ensnared by silken chains.

  God’s teeth, he hoped,prayed, Rome would not grant an annulment. If so, he would have no legal claim to Ariane.

  Could he give her up then? The question was absurd. He could not face the bleak emptiness of a life without her. He could not, would not, relinquish her. Yet the price of her acceptance was his heart.

  Ranulf took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut against the images that tormented him: Ariane challenging him to look beyond his bitterness and hate. Ariane laughing. Ariane making love to him . . . her soft breasts pillowed on his chest, her cool hands encircling him, stroking him. Ariane refusing his offer.

  If you do not know—truly know—deep in your heart that I can make you happy, that I can complete your life as you could mine, that our two hearts would be as one. . . .

  Aye, heknew. He could give her his heart. Had given it. He desperately wanted her to love him. And he loved her. His desire went beyond blood, beyond a fever of the flesh. It came from deep within him, within his soul. She had touched something in him he had not known he possessed. He loved her.